


Stranger than Your Sympathy

by Star_dancer54



Series: Sympathy [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author has done a lot of research that probably won't even wind up in the story, Author has feelings about The Amazing Devil and will share them damnit, BAMF bards ftw, Canon mentions of dead children, Don't copy to another site, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fuck the official layout of Kaer Morhen artistic license ftw, Gen, Geralt fears Vesemir's White Gull Inquisitions, Geralt is terrible at judging the passage of time, Geralt is trying to get his shit together, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Grumpy old witchers deserve nice things too, Introspection, Jaskier has his shit together, Jaskier's righteous fury at oblivious witchers, Jaskier's voice is definitely a weapon of mass destruction, Mountain fortress hot springs or death, Oxenfurt Academy Underground Revolutionaries, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Roach is tired of Geralt's bullshit, Slow Burn, Some bards have magic and will live 'til they're killed fight me, The School of the Wolf is a pack of cranky lone wolves, Timeline jumps: if the show can do it so can I, Vesemir is tired of Geralt's bullshit, pre episode s1e06 rare species, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22342012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_dancer54/pseuds/Star_dancer54
Summary: The witcher and the bard, over the years.Geralt only notices the quiet when his contact sits back from the table, their discussion complete. The woman's focus is no longer on the witcher – her attention's been caught the same as the rest of the folks in the great hall. Geralt's nostrils flare as he scents the air; something familiar-and-yet-different that he had smelled on entering the hall is suddenly so much stronger than the smell of sweat and warm bodies and alcohol, and then his ears finally register the voice, familiar and yet different as the scent.The bard had clearly been singing for a while, and with the ringing tones that spoke of words worn smooth with almost prayerful repetition, he sings of the sky and darkness and heartbreak. As he reaches the climax of the chorus, Geralt closes his eyes, turns to face the bard, and opens his eyes on a sight he hasn't seen for... months. Has it been a year yet?...Perhaps Jaskier will give him the chance to apologize.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sympathy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655260
Comments: 65
Kudos: 655
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. You Left Me in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> It has been over ten fucking years since I have written (and posted) anything. Ten. Years. And then I catch the trailer for the Witcher on Netflix, and like so many others I fell headfirst. It also just so happens that my roots? Are songfics - fanfiction that either has a character sing a song for most of the story or a fic that is set to the tune of a song. So when Jaskier popped up on my radar, my brain did that thing like those seagulls from that one Pixar movie did - except instead of saying 'MINE?!?' my brain went "BARD?!?"
> 
> This has in actuality been beta'd by my sister (who is categorically Not in the fandom but is willing to bend over backward for her lunatic little sister), but if there are any fuckups remaining I lay claim to them. 
> 
> There will probably be only two parts. Unless I get possessed. Or more freaking ideas than I already have, which, well. I have about thirty other fic ideas floating around in my head so I suppose this might be me trying to fool myself. There's also a lot of time jumping - it should be pretty obvious where, but if anyone sees any wild tense changes PLEASE tell me so's I can whip them into shape. I've not read the books/played the games yet, but I did spend a lot of time on the wiki, so hopefully I got most of the lore bits right. Also, the sphere poisoning the water was straight up pulled from an episode of Merlin because I gave up on researching cryptids and the Witcher beastiary for something that fit.
> 
> Title taken from the Goo Goo Doll's Sympathy:  
>  _Stranger than your sympathy  
>  This is my apology  
> I'm killing myself from the inside out  
> And all my fears have pushed you out_

NOW:  


Geralt only notices the quiet when his contact sits back from the table, their discussion complete. The woman's focus is no longer on the witcher – her attention's been caught the same as the rest of the folks in the great hall. Geralt's nostrils flare as he scents the air; something familiar-and-yet-different that he had smelled on entering the hall is suddenly so much stronger than the smell of sweat and warm bodies and alcohol, and then his ears finally register the voice, familiar and yet different as the scent.

The bard had clearly been singing for a while, and with the ringing tones that spoke of words worn smooth with almost prayerful repetition, he sings of the [sky and darkness and heartbreak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EIeUlvHAiM). As he reaches the climax of the chorus, Geralt closes his eyes, turns to face the bard, and opens his eyes on a sight he hasn't seen for... months. Has it been a year yet? 

Jaskier's appearance hasn't changed as much as part of Geralt had feared – he has no grey in his hair, but with Geralt's enhanced eyes he can see a few more lines around the bard's eyes than there had been in Niedamir's mountains. He is, however, dressed in a more subdued manner than he had been; most of his tunic and trousers are black, shot with a bright blue-grey that matched his eyes and lined in a darker, deeper blue around the edges. He stands there on the stage, and Geralt watches him and wonders. 

Perhaps Jaskier will give him the chance to apologize. 

THEN:

The moon was barely visible over the trees when Geralt stirred from his meditation beside the fire. A deep scenting of the air revealed nothing of concern – just the smells of the forest, Roach, his leathers, and...

The bard. 

Geralt still wasn't sure why he allowed the young man to accompany him. Companions had... not been a part of his life for a very long time, and definitely not since the clusterfuck that was Blaviken. 

He huffed out a breath and registered the quiet sounds of distress coming from the human. Craning his neck to see around the fire, he saw how the bard was curled on himself, asleep on the hardpacked dirt but hissing out stuttered breaths from the cold. He had no bedroll, not even a cloak to keep him warm; it had to be pure exhaustion from the day that was keeping him unconscious.

What the hells was that young fool doing out in the world with so little protection against even a chilly night? At least Geralt had the protection of his Witcher's blood to keep the cold from biting him.

Another trembling hiss from the bard spurred Geralt into reluctant action. With a soft grunt he pushed himself up from the ground. After shaking his legs to return the feeling to them he passed the fire and stood over where the bard curled. The little idiot had turned away from the fire, so with with another soft grunt he sat with his back to the bard's belly. Before he could even scoot closer to the young man, he heard a shuffle as the bard immediately curled up against him; even in his sleep the bard had registered Geralt's heat and moved towards it. 

He'd meditate just as easily there by the bard as on the other side of the fire. By noon the next day they would reach the next settlement, and while there he'd see about some supplies. 

NOW:

Jaskier's song finishes and he takes a bow when the thunderous applause erupts around the Great Hall. He descends the steps from the little stage and is immediately swarmed by those wishing to speak to the great bard. 

Geralt watches for a few moments more, but before he can pull his eyes from the bard's slim form the woman, his contact, leans forward again and catches his attention. 

“He journeyed with you, didn't he, Witcher?” There's a bright cynicism in her eyes, like that of a mockingbird. “He won't sing any of the songs he wrote about the White Wolf these days, but I saw him perform about ten years ago in Cintra. Wrote that song about tossing coins, right?” She hums the chorus, and Geralt stifles a flinch.

“I'll be back in less than two days' time with the proof of death. Will I find you here or are you returning home before the end of the celebration?”

The woman flashes her teeth in a grin. “Oh, I'll be here, Witcher.”

He nods to her and leaves, trying not to feel like he's fleeing the sight of someone he wronged.

THEN:

The bard – Jaskier – had travelled with him on and off for four years when Temeria called for Geralt – and any other nearby witcher – to aid them. Something was preying on the healthy citizens of Vizima, leaving them drained nearly to death of their vitality. Geralt answered the desperate summons, but on arrival he and Jaskier fought viciously over the bard accompanying him on the trail into the sewers under the Lower City. The witcher won, and the bard remained behind in the castle.

It took three days to find the culprit – a peculiar sphere that had somehow made its way into the system of wells that the entirety of Vizima's citizenry drank from – and during those few hours when Geralt returned for supplies or a moment to breathe without the stink of the sewers, he made sure to check in on the bard. The first night took Geralt the longest to find the bard; Jaskier's scent was throughout much of the castle, and he'd clearly been busy to judge by the strength of the smell of his sweat. 

He finally tracked the bard down in, of all places, a nursery. Many of the victims had children, and as the sickness struck the adults of the families but bypassed their babes, King Foltest had ordered the children of the victims gathered for safety. Geralt had initially planned to bypass the wing entirely – Jaskier's damned Witcher songs were not quite so popular that the sight of the witcher's coloring and swords didn't still sometimes send small children fleeing from him – but the soft sounds of the bard's lute caught his ear. Of course Jaskier was with the children. With a silent sigh and a bracing of his nerves the witcher stepped through the main doorway into the wing and followed the sounds of the bard.

It was near the end of the corridor that Geralt found the young man. He paused at the doorway into what was clearly a child's room, set up with numerous cots and at least a dozen lit candles. There were fourteen children of various ages curled up singly or in pairs on the cots, and the ones still awake were listening with rapt attention to the [quiet little lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E57Iu_XfC2c) Jaskier played. 

As the minutes passed and Geralt watched, the last few children closed their eyes and fell into deep asleep. Soon after that, Jaskier's fingers slowed and then finally stopped. A woman Geralt had barely noticed pressed a cup into the bard's hand and he accepted with a small smile, draining it and handing it back before standing with a faint groan. His hands automatically settled the lute against his back and he glanced up to see Geralt still standing in the doorway. The bard beamed a greeting, and Geralt felt his lips twitch almost into a smile. Or a grimace. 

After blowing out the last of the lit candles, the woman ushered the bard out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, nodding a greeting at Geralt before turning back to Jaskier with a relieved smile. “Melitele's blessing to you and your lute, Jaskier,” she said in near a whisper. “The little ones haven't been able to sleep a wink with their parents so ill. We were starting to seriously consider dosing their dinners with a sleeping draught.”

The bard huffed a quiet laugh. “I'm just glad that I actually remembered so many of these lullabies. They aren't exactly my usual songs, and they aren't terribly popular in Oxenfurt.”

“Well, whatever the reason, you've taken a great stress off of our shoulders tonight, and we thank you.” She looked questioningly in Geralt's direction. “Have you had any luck tracking the sickness, Witcher?”

Geralt shook his head. Before the woman's face could fall, Jaskier spoke quickly. “Have no worries, Mistress Turpin - the White Wolf will find the creature responsible. Soon, this will be like a bad dream and those children will be back with their parents.” He winked outrageously at the woman. “Trust us.”

The woman – Mistress Turpin – snorted in amusement. “All right, then, Master Troublemaker.” Her smile faded after a moment, and then she asked hesitantly, “If you're here for a while, is there a chance..?”

Jaskier nodded and clasped her hands in his. “I'll come by after the sun sets. Unless my companion needs me?” He glanced questioningly up at Geralt. The witcher shrugged, and taking that as an answer the bard turned his attention back to Mistress Turpin. “I'll see you tomorrow evening,” he promised.

“Bless you,” Mistress Turpin said again, before dipping into a small bow and heading into another nearby room. 

Jaskier watched her go with a faint smile, and then, feeling Geralt's eyes on him he glanced up to the witcher again. He wrinkled his nose. “I didn't want to say it in front of Mistress Turpin, but you smell rank. Have you considered taking advantage of the accommodations and calling for a bath in your quarters?”

Geralt furrowed his brow at the bard. “Quarters?” 

The bard beamed. “I may have talked to your sorceress friend and arranged for you to use one of the guest rooms near her work room.” At Geralt's stare, his smile faded to more normal levels and he shrugged. “Apparently it's usually used for visiting mages. But I thought a visiting witcher – who is helping the king and has already saved his princess – would be an acceptable substitute. Triss agreed.”

“Hmm.”

The bard's face lit up again. “Which translates to: thank you, dear Jaskier, for looking out for my comforts and well-being. Please, do show me the way to these rooms.” He made an extravagant gesture down the corridor.

Geralt huffed in amusement but let the bard lead the way. “Where's Roach?”

“In the royal stables, eating richly and biting impertinent stallions and stable boys alike. I've already caught hell from one of the more experienced hands, but after he learned who, exactly, that spirited filly belonged to he backed down and offered to very carefully give her several apples. Using a bucket and a pole, so as not to get too close.” Jaskier chuckled wickedly. “She doesn't seem to like most of the stable hands. But she's warm and will probably be fatter by the time we leave if this takes longer than a day or two. It'll be good for her.”

Geralt grunted. “And you?”

The bard paused and blinked at him. “And me? What about me?”

“Where are you stabled tonight, bard? Comforting a wife of one of the victims?”

Jaskier made a rude noise. “Not tonight, thank you. And don't think I didn't notice your order of importance, Geralt. I know that I rate less than Roach, but you don't have to rub it in.” When Geralt didn't deign to respond, the bard continued. “With how many people are ill here I haven't been down from the palace, but I can easily find an inn or tavern with a room to rent. I've made decent enough coin to do that, even if it's not as luxurious as the rooms here.”

By that point, they had reached the guest quarters and Jaskier opened the door with a flourish. “And here we are.” 

Geralt peered around his shoulder. Before the bard could head back down the halls, the witcher snagged him by his lute strap and tugged him into the guest quarters. 

Jaskier staggered as he was dragged in, stuttering out, “W-what?” 

Geralt released him and nodded to the bed. “That thing is plenty big enough for both of us. Save your coin.” He glanced at the bard's face in time to see a tense expression flicker and then be smoothed out. 

“In exchange for what, exactly?” The bard's scent sharpened with a hint of something bitter.

Geralt stifled a growl. “In exchange for nothing, bard.” He watched Jaskier's shoulders slowly relax and continued, “You helped around the castle where you could, and got those children to sleep. That sounds like enough to have earned half of that bed.” He glanced back at the bed with a grimace. “The damned thing is enormous. I probably won't even notice you're there.”

Jaskier let out a slightly nervous giggle and nodded. “I've seen orgies that required less room,” he remarked, eyeing the bed as he walked around it to investigate more of the room.

Geralt paid him little mind, more focused on building a decent fire in the fireplace than the bard's running commentary. His casting of Igni nearly missed the kindling entirely when he heard a decadent moan from one of the other rooms. His soft curse was drowned out by the bard's excited voice. 

“Geralt, you have to see this _tub_. I'm fairly sure you could drown a bull in this thing.” A loud clang echoed through the room, followed by an excited yelp. “There's a pump for the water in here! No need to summon some poor servant to fill this thing, the lucky bastards! This has to be the work of the mages, or maybe even dwarven work – I remember reading that the small folk are damned good with their metal.”

Geralt closed his eyes and searched himself for some patience. He was also fighting a small smile.

NOW:

It takes less than a day to clear out the flock of basilisks in the cave system just a few miles past the outskirts of town, and the woman who hired him is pleased that he managed to bring back more than just the two hides she had asked for. She is less pleased at the smell of dead basilisk clinging to his leathers, but still gives him extra coin for the extra hides, pointedly suggesting he take himself to the inn just outside the castle gates for a good soaking.

He can't disagree. Roach had taken one sniff of him when he'd walked out of the caves with his prizes and refused to let him on her back. It had taken more sweet talking than Geralt cares to admit to before the mare was even willing to carry the basilisk hides, and only promises of the prettiest, shiniest apples he could find would coax her into letting him grab her reins.

The Miner's Whistle is not the best place that Geralt has ever rented a room, but it is far from the worst. It has a tub large enough that his back and the soles of his feet can just touch the opposite walls if he stretches out, and that is good enough for him to be content. He orders extra buckets of water, well aware that just the one soaking will not be enough, and after the innkeeper's son deposits the last bucket in the room and departs with a nod Geralt starts stripping. After laying his armor out for cleaning later, he steps into the tub.

He pauses, heaves a heavy sigh, and goes digging in his saddlebags, emerging with a few sweet-smelling sachets and a bottle of... something... that smells like what Jaskier had used the night before Princess Pavetta's betrothal party.

The least he can do before he confronts Jaskier is smell as inoffensive as possible. 

THEN:

Gargoyles, Geralt decided, were obnoxious beings to fight. The only plus side he could see as he stalked out of the ruins was that at least they didn't leave behind gore and ichor that ate through his armor. Or flesh. He fought the urge to sneeze. Again. 

“Geralt?” The sounds of Jaskier's lute that Geralt was using to track the bard paused. “That is you, Witcher, not some overgrown dust kitten, right?”

Geralt growled. Then sneezed again. He could hear the bard shuffling some items then approach. 

“Geralt, are you alright? Did the golem-”

“Not a golem.”

“Ah.” Jaskier paused for a beat, then asked hesitantly, “What-”

“Gargoyles.”

“Ah.” Jaskier repeated, this time sounding as if he understood the problem. “More than one, then? And clearly at least one blew up in your face...” 

“The second to last one caused the last to explode.”

“Right then,” the bard muttered. “And of course there's no lake or stream within easy walking distance to wash off the dust. Geralt, can you even see?”

No, he could not really see – he had been using his senses of smell (when he could inhale without immediately starting to sneeze) and hearing to track down the bard at the camp. He didn't really want to admit to this, however, so merely grunted and angled towards his saddlebags. And tripped over the damned things. He managed to catch himself on the fallen log that his bags were leaning against but he knew that the bard had seen him.

Thankfully, Jaskier didn't laugh. Instead, his voice going high with worry he said, “Why don't you just sit by the fire there – please don't set yourself ablaze – and I'll see what we've got that can help. Maybe take your hair down and shake the dust out of it to start.”

Geralt sighed through his nose, sneezed again, and settled himself on the log, facing the fire's heat. He started to grab the tie holding his hair back and let out an irritated and pained snarl. He'd forgotten about his hands. A shifting in the air and a hint of Jaskier's scent was warning enough that Geralt didn't reach for one of his knives, but he still twitched at the bard's touch on his head.

“Let me see them,” Jaskier said quietly. Geralt felt his brows furrow but he allowed the bard to gently pull his hands up closer to the bard's sightline. Jaskier hissed in sympathy as he inspected the wounds. 

Geralt huffed. He'd been lucky he'd gotten his hands up to his face in time, else those shards of stone would be embedded in his eyes.

“Right then,” Jaskier said, releasing the witcher's hands. “Let's start at the top and work our way to that.” With unexpected patience, the bard carefully tilted Geralt's head towards the ground, pulled the tie from Geralt's hair and started shaking loose the worst of the dust and debris. He made no complaint, not even when Geralt caught a scent of Jaskier's own blood.

Geralt huffed in a breath, scenting to discover if the wound was something that would need attention, but the smell of human blood was faint. He decided that if it was a concern, the bard would deal with it himself. Soon, he felt Jaskier's slim fingers start to brush his hair back from his face, pulling the part closest towards the back of his head. With surprising gentleness the bard tied Geralt's hair back from his eyes, then leaned close enough that Geralt could easily hear his heartbeat. “That's better,” the bard murmured, then he was leaning back and rustling with some of the supplies. “Keep your eyes closed, dear Witcher – this is sadly going to be cold and a bit wet.”

Even with the warning Geralt flinched back from the feeling of cold wetness – cloth, soaked in water? He felt gentle fingers hold his chin in place and when he settled again the bard began cleaning his face, starting at his forehead and working his way down.


	2. Come Rip Up the Flesh of My Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past still haunts Geralt, but in the present he finally catches another scent of the bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally had the chance to fix the coding for the links to the two songs in the previous chapters. If you're curious as to what they were, they're Florence + the Machine's Cosmic Love (where the chapter title came from) and Adrien Von Ziegler's Maiden's Lullaby.
> 
> This chapter has some music as well as some ambient sounds from Tabletop Audio (Artist's Garret for the armor cleaning scene, and then Barovian Castle for any scene in Kaer Morhen), which is one of the best damned resources for setting moods that I've come across. They'll be properly linked, or by the gods I'll know why :/

NOW:

Soaking in the tub starts to soothe Geralt, especially with the still-familiar scents of the herbs in the satchets and the oils in the bottle. He leans against the inner edge of the tub, rests his head against the lip of it, and closes his eyes. He sighs, shifting until his head slips below the surface of the water. He opens his eyes underwater and watches his dirty hair float above and around him before starting to scrub at his scalp with calloused fingertips. Dark, long-dried gore blooms out into the water, and Geralt frowns a bit at the sight. 

Perhaps this bath was more overdue than he'd thought. 

He lingers in the tub as long as he can. He fills the empty buckets with filthy water and replaces it with the clean water from the unused ones. The fresh water is cold, but a flash of Igni reheats it. Geralt ignores the inner voice chiding him for wasting his magic and settles more comfortably in the tub. Time passes, and eventually the water chills again and his fingertips are as wrinkled as an old man's. He drags himself out and tosses the drying sheet on the floor by the fire so he can sit and air dry. 

After, he'll start cleaning his armor. He just wants to rest for a moment.

THEN:

[The rain outside was loud in the quiet of the room](http://tabletopaudio.com/index.html?154); the only other sounds were the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, the noises of quiet industry, and Jaskier's occasional soft humming. 

Geralt's sewing kit – no longer only filled with dark, sturdy thread – was spread out before the bard and he was repairing several rips in a bright sapphire tunic. Two months prior it had made an unfortunate acquaintance with a transformed botchling's claws – as had the bard himself – and at the time Geralt halfway expected the bard to simply give the tunic up for lost. Instead, Jaskier did... something with snowmelt and salt to get rid of the blood. He then squirreled it away in his compartment of one of Roach's saddlebags, claiming he would look for the perfect thread at a later date. That date had apparently come, and to Geralt's barely-trained eye the work the bard was doing looked as good as any seamstress's. 

He watched the bard work for a few more moments before returning to his own task of cleaning his armor. His cuirass was drying near the fire – the thing took forever to fully dry out after a soaking, but the rest of his armor – as well as his boots and various sword and dagger sheaths – were arrayed around him where he sat crosslegged on the floor. His hard-bristled cleaning brush, some leather soap and a bottle of conditioning oil sat in his cloth-covered lap; bowls of clean and dirty water and clean scraps of cloth that might have once been articles of clothing filled the spaces between the articles of leather. He had already brushed everything down and gently soaped, rinsed and dried his pauldrons and was about to start on his bracers when he realized he was wrong. He was missing items. He looked around more thoroughly, then frowned.

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” the bard responded, clearly not paying much attention. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, waiting for the bard to glance up from his work. “Where are my gloves?” 

Jaskier blinked at him for a moment before the question registered. “Ah,” he said, carefully setting down his tunic and threaded needle. “About that.” 

Geralt watched as he went over to the saddlebags and dug in his own section before letting out a small noise of triumph. He then watched as Jaskier walked over to him with a slight bounce in his step. The bard stood over the witcher with a bundle of leather in his hand. It was odd, Geralt thought, to be shorter than the bard. Not that Geralt was that much taller; Jaskier's typically restless energy just always reminded Geralt of a fast moving bird. A sparrow, or finch, perhaps. He was distracted from his thoughts when the bard spoke.

“I'd noticed that the palms of your gloves get worn out quickly – I'm assuming from your sword work – and I happened to spot a pair in Novigrad that had reinforcements that I thought would last longer than your normal ones.” Jaskier offered the gloves with a tentative smile. “I've got your other ones if you don't care for these, though they were eaten through by that wyvern's stomach acid.”

Geralt felt his face twist in rememberance and reached up to accept the new gloves. Once in hand, he stared at them. They were clearly well-made, with a supple backing for hand flexibility and thickly padded at the palms. The color was a rich ebony and the lacings on the sides of the wrists meant they would be less likely to collect water inside after close encounters with denizens of bodies of water, which also meant fewer annoying friction blisters on his hands from ill-fitting gloves. 

They were also clearly expensive. “I can't- “ Geralt began to protest.

“You absolutely can,” Jaskier interrupted. “I've made very good coin off of the songs you inspired, and while I was in Novigrad the nobles were practically flinging gold my way. The least I can do is share my plenty with the person who made that plenty possible.” 

Geralt swallowed. Jaskier's lips lifted in a small smile. “It's a gift,” he said softly. “Just accept them. Or give them to some deserving orphan.” His smile grew until it flashed some teeth. “Don't think I didn't see you leaving a stack of coin for that little elf lad last week.”

The witcher huffed a laugh through his nose and laid the gloves next to his pauldrons to be conditioned. He avoided Jaskier's eyes, settling the gloves just so, and finally managed to get out a quiet, “Thank you, Jaskier.”

“You're welcome, Geralt.”

The little interlude complete, the bard returned to his mendings, and the witcher bent back over his armor. 

As he squeezed the excess water out of a clean cloth and rubbed some leather soap into it to begin cleaning his right bracer, Geralt wasn't certain he'd ever had such a peaceful moment. He paused. No, probably not since his mother had abandoned him to Vesemir.

It was... different, and as Jaskier started to hum to himself again, Geralt decided he liked it.

NOW: 

Geralt wakes with a jolt at the sound of his neighbors fucking.

What-? 

He shakes his head, rubs his face with his hands and tries to ignore the man's yowls of pleasure. He sighs, rolls over to face the barely-burning fire; he'd apparently turned his back on it and had been curled up like a fetus for some time. A full-body stretch to rid himself of the worst of his aches later, he gropes for the extra wood by the fireplace, tossing it on the flames with abnormal casualness. He has a vague moment of petulance, as he does not want to clean his armor and knows that it will take forever, but he finally pushes himself off of the floor. 

The sheet he'd laid on kept him from getting too dusty, but he still swipes his hands down his flanks and ass to make sure nothing too questionable has stuck to him before slowly walking to his saddlebags. He pauses, rests a hand on the bag with the compartment that still doesn't feel like his own. He unbuckles the flap, checks to make sure that the few items still in that section are there, then digs in the other side for his armor cleaning kit.

He's been lax in taking care of his armor for a while now – only bothering to wipe the pieces down to get the worst of the grime off before moving on – but he knows it's well past time he did a proper cleaning of it. A quiet part of him does not particularly want Jaskier to see how much he's been slipping, and Geralt lets that propel him into action. 

He's already slept more hours than he'd expected, but hopefully the bard will still be in town tomorrow. Then Geralt can see him (in freshly-cleaned armor), apologize, and... see where things stand. 

When he starts to order his armor around him on the floor, he pointedly refuses to glance at his saddlebags.

THEN:

_”If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

_“Right. Uh... Right, then. I'll... I'll go get the rest of the story from the others... See you around, Geralt.”_

NOW:

Jaskier is not still in the city the next day. Geralt asks around, eventually finds out that the bard had headed towards the coast. 

He follows.

THEN:

It took arriving at [Kaer Moren](http://tabletopaudio.com/index.html?148) a full two months early for the winter before Geralt admitted to himself that he'd fled from his behavior towards Jaskier. Before reaching it, he'd worked himself and Roach to the bone, taking as many contracts as he could while ignoring the fact that he wouldn't have as many contracts if Jaskier's songs hadn't made such headway with his reputation. 

By the time they traversed the Witcher's Trail and reached the fortress, though, Roach was refusing to let him ride. As soon as they walked through the main gate the mare took off for the stables. She nudged the half open door the rest of the way so she could settle in a stall with a snort of displeasure at her surroundings. Her stall was clearly sub-par, in her opinion, so as soon as Geralt removed his gear from her back – settling it out of reach of the testy horse – he went to the well for a bucket of water. While she was distracted with her drink he cleaned the stall next to hers and put down fresh – or at least somewhat fresh – straw. Roach allowed herself to be bribed with a wizened apple and reluctantly stepped into the prepared stall when he was finished, though the witcher still received a sharp nip to the shoulder for his mistreatment of poor, hard working horses. 

The first few days he kept himself busy; he was the first witcher to arrive, so he was the first to start preparing the keep for inhabitants. Typically, the main focus of cleaning was shared space of the kitchen, but after he rid the room of the worst of the debris the wind and stray animals had brought in he found himself too restless to leave it half-done. He found a broom with only half its bristles remaining and swept the cobwebs he could reach down from the ceiling. He cleaned the kitchen's hearth thoroughly, climbing partway up the massive chimney to remove the long-dead birds that had sought shelter there. He hauled water from the well to scrub down the surfaces, down to and including the cracked and worn stone floor. He tossed the worst of the broken furniture into an empty room to be broken down for firewood at a later time. He checked the firewood supplies, found them lacking, and spent most of a day hauling dead wood from the surrounding forest up to the keep. He cleared much of the rubble from the main rooms, rubble that had remained in place since the sacking.

He... refused to think about why, exactly, he was so concerned with the place looking less like the near-abandoned ruin that it was. 

NOW:

Geralt finally catches up to Jaskier in Oxenfurt. Or, at least, he hears that the well-known bard is back in town, visiting friends and collegues and planning on being a guest lecturer in one of the Advanced Poetry courses. 

For all that Oxenfurt is not a very large city, Geralt has... issues tracking Jaskier down. He doesn't want to bring attention to his search, unwilling to let news of his arrival reach Jaskier before he's got some sort of plan. Instead, he decides to use what abilities he has to find the bard's whereabouts. He keeps his hood low to hide his hair and avoids talking to people. He can smell the bard throughout almost the entirety of the city, catching hints of the soaps and oils Jaskier favors. It's early evening when Geralt finds a fresh scent and he follows it, catching a glimpse of a familiar form. He lurks around a corner, watching.

Jaskier is almost completely hidden with a heavy cloak as he heads down a suspicious alley and towards some stairs guarded by what look like mercenaries. He pauses before the pair, then one opens the door at the bottom of the stairs and allows him past. The mercenary returns to his post. A few minutes pass, and then Geralt follows.

As Geralt approaches the mercenaries, his medallion hums softly. He slows, searching for the cause but when one of the mercenaries catches a glimpse of his eyes he's waved forward.

“Witcher,” the woman rasps. A harsh smile twists the scar on her face in what must be an alarming way for a human. “We don't see your kind often around here. I hope you're not hunting anything tonight.” At the shake of Geralt's head she makes a mocking bow but nudges her companion to open the door. “Leave your sword and all but one dagger with the girl at the front. She'll make sure they'll get back to you when you're done.”

Geralt stifles a growl but nods his assent.

After casting a nervous look at the witcher, the other mercenary – younger, with one brown eye and one eye a pale blue – goes down the stairs, pressing his hand to the door. He hisses something that even Geralt can barely hear and the door creaks open. As he passes the man, the witcher's medallion buzzes harder for a moment before abruptly stopping. 

The door leads to a corridor barely lit with a single candle, and at the end is a young woman with the delicately pointed ears of someone of elven decent. She accepts Geralt's sword and daggers, offering a slip of parchment in trade. She gestures towards the curtains behind her. He nods in acknowledgement, then ducks through them. The curtains must be somehow sound blocking, because when he enters the room he's momentarily dazed by the chattering and laughter of the occupants.

He finds himself in what's clearly an underground tavern. As he searches for either the bard or an out of the way place to sit, he notices the unusually high number of non-human patrons. He spots a quiet corner next to a group of dwarves and settles himself with his back to the wall, looking around but still keeping his hood pulled low over his face. 

A youth with the look of a tavern wench but with the sharper scent of a male approaches with a smile. “Greetings, Witcher. What may we offer to sate your appetites?”

Geralt huffs an amused breath but orders a stein of vodka. The youth sashays away and the witcher returns to searching the room for the bard. 

He finally spots Jaskier on the small stage with a group of other musicians. He's tuning a lute, his cloak draped over the stool behind him. He's also still wearing a more subdued coloring than Geralt is accustomed to seeing. It is just as jarring to see as it was the first time.

His vodka arrives quickly and when he turns his eyes back to the stage the musicians are settled in their spots, a brunette woman at the front with Jaskier. [She starts to sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p3wFZfpMQmM), her voice sweet and slow at first, Jaskier's lute joining in with a few strums and plucks. As she continues, Jaskier adds more melody, then at the near-snarled repetition of the line “in that house at the top of the rock,” the rest of the musicians join in with a pounding beat.

Geralt's medallion _thrums_ , and he can feel the magic building. When he inhales he can smell seawater, salt; the song is alive with a spell and while Geralt knows it's an illusion, it is still strong enough that if he wishes, he can let it work on him. He takes a long pull of the vodka, thinks to hell with it, and lets the illusion wrap itself around him. He catches glimpses of a rising tide on the walls, tastes the sea. And when Jaskier joins his voice to the woman's the spell becomes stronger, soaking into Geralt's chest and bidding his heart hurry and catch up. His pulse _pounds_. 

As the song continues and the other musicians occasionally join their voices to Jaskier and the woman, it provokes something in Geralt, and he reluctantly admits to himself that it's emotions that he typically only feels when he's fighting something he's not sure he can defeat. Fear, a determination to not lose, a low-grade panic of 'what will happen if this kills me? Who will die next?' - they all rise and fall as the song continues and Jaskier and the woman's voices collide and come apart, lyrics sometimes at odds with each other, other times joined to deliver a powerful war cry.

By the time the song is over, Geralt feels... exhausted. He considers retreating, returning to his rented room and searching out Jaskier at a later date.

He doesn't. He stays.

THEN:

A month before most of the other witchers would arrive, Geralt had reached an impasse with the cleaning in the keep. Most of the rubble had been removed from the main rooms. The braziers and fireplaces were cleared of old debris with fresh wood stacked with easy reach, and the furniture that could be easily mended had been. Geralt was debating the wisdom of investigating the flooded tunnels for anything useful, wondering if he was going too far with his efforts when he registered sounds from outside the keep.

Horses were coming up the path. One was laden with a rider, the other with supplies for the winter. Geralt turned from the blocked doorway and, moving at a pace faster than a walk but slower than a run, he reached the gatehouse in time to see Vesemir dismount. 

The older witcher didn't look surprised to see him, merely grunting in acknowledgement and gesturing towards the other horse before beginning to pull his saddlebags off of his mount. Geralt went to the other horse, dodging a kick from the irritable creature before starting to remove the sacks and casks that were piled on its back. 

The two witchers worked quietly, unloading the horses and then settling them in stalls next to Roach's. Vesemir huffed in what Geralt knew was amusement, though, when he saw that the stables were as spotless as they could get. Geralt felt a moment of relief that his slow heartbeat meant he couldn't blush. He didn't _think _his mentor would comment on his... possibly... odd behavior, but the potential was there.__

__Vesemir held his tongue until he actually went into the keep itself, letting out a bark of laughter at the sight of the clean floors and lack of ancient soot on the walls' murals. “Did you steal a housekeeper, boy, or were you that damned bored?” Catching a glimpse of Geralt's face, the older witcher turned to face him fully and stared him down._ _

__“No, not boredom,” Vesemir said slowly, seeming to read Geralt's mind for a few moments before continuing, “No, you've done something you're not proud of and ran to the closest thing you've got to a home to avoid it. And now you're cleaning the place as if you could clean your guilty conscious. Just like when you knocked one of the younger boys silly right after the final Trial, when you didn't know how to control your new strength.”_ _

__At Geralt's faint flinch, Vesemir scowled ferociously and snapped, “If this is to do with that thrice-damned Child Surprise nonsense you got yourself into-”_ _

__“Not... entirely,” Geralt responded, forcing himself to keep eye contact with his teacher. He wanted to look away, wanted to do anything except talk about what had happened, but... This was Vesemir, and the older witcher would pry the words out one way or another. At least this way, Geralt would be sober and not have to deal with the inevitable hangover that came from one of the older witcher's White Gull inquisitions._ _

__He sighed, then gestured towards the kitchen. “Can we start unpacking the supplies first?”_ _

__Vesemir exhaled sharply in irritation, resettled his bags over his shoulder, then started towards the kitchen. “I'll be mixing up some White Gull before the moon rises, I see.”_ _

__Geralt stifled a shudder and followed him._ _

__

__NOW:_ _

__The group's set ends and the tavern crowd cheers. Geralt is a little tipsy from the vodka (then Dwarven spirits, and then a small shot of plum cordial from a friendly bar maid) when he watches the players leave the stage. Most mingle, but he sees Jaskier duck behind another curtain after laying claim to a rather large filled wooden bowl awaiting him on a nearby counter. No one immediately follows him._ _

__Geralt takes a chance, gets up, and follows the bard. The crowd is loud enough that he doesn't hear the sound of footsteps following him._ _

__

__THEN:_ _

__Before the first of the other witchers were due to start trickling in to Kaer Morhen, Vesemir and Geralt finished fighting about the stupidity of Geralt's actions... again. For the time being, at least. The older witcher had broken the enchantments hiding what remained of the School of the Wolf's libraries and Geralt was keeping out of his way by clearing the pathway down to the underground hot springs. The smell of sulfur was starting to hang heavy in the lower levels of the fortress again, soothing in its own peculiar way._ _

__With the arrival of the others, though, Vesemir informed him that if he did not stop with his 'rehabilitation' of the keep, Vesemir was going to throw him down one of the lower levels with collapsed staircases and make him dig his way back out. “Restock the alchemical supplies, find something useful to read in the Library, hunt – do some damned thing that doesn't involve major construction,” he finally snarled, throwing an already-dented pot at the younger witcher's head, “I'm tired of hearing rocks falling and your 'controlled explosions' bullshit.”_ _

__Geralt snarled right back, but then shook himself and left the kitchen with as much dignity as he could muster. He stalked through the corridors, avoiding Eskel's hail and eventually found himself in the library._ _

__Most of the room had been destroyed, but with the enchantment blocking entrance to the lower part removed he now saw that the more dangerous books, the ones not for the general school use, were still there. The braziers down there were not lit. If Geralt were human the room would be impossible to search, but his eyes traveled the titles on the shelves until one seemed to flare in his vision. It was dusty and difficult to read, but when Geralt brushed the dust off its spine he could see that it was a collection of old signs and symbols of magic._ _

__Geralt opened it, half expecting the thing to just disintegrate. It held together, though, and on the front page was the clear, archaic head of a griffin._ _

__Huh._ _

__It was a book from Kaer Seren. Geralt sent an absent Igni to the nearest brazier, kicked a nearby stool to test its stability, and sat down on it to investigate the book's contents._ _

__The School of the Griffin was known among the other witchers for its magic users, as well as the vast collection of magical books they had aquired over the years. That lone book had to have been borrowed before their near-destruction by... whichever group of mages it had been. So... maybe a century ago? Longer? However long it had been, the book was still in decent shape, and as Geralt read an idea began to form._ _

__He wondered if there was still a decent supply somewhere of the silver studs he and his fellows used on their armor. Perhaps the armory had an area like the library, some place that was locked safely away before the villagers arrived._ _

__It would be worth a look, at least._ _


	3. Fret Not Dear Love, Let Not Them Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stabbing; death. An apology; refusal. The journey continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to The Amazing Devil's The Horror and the Wild about fifteen bazillion times while writing this, and there's also a reference to another of their songs - Not Yet/Love Run. Does anyone actually listen to the things I link in here? I do it mostly for my own entertainment, though there's not any in this one. 
> 
> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Canon mention of past dead kids. Also some violence.

NOW:

The scent of Jaskier's sweat and perfumed oils – as well as the smell of fresh blackberries, for some reason – leads Geralt to one nondescript door in a long line of other doors. He knocks, and a muffled “Enter” sounds from the other side of the door. Geralt takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Jaskier starts speaking as soon as the witcher steps through the doorway. The bard's back is to him as he deposits the bowl on a nearby desk. “I was expecting you to come up during the set. Was that not dramatic enough for you?” It's only his familiarity with the bard that lets Geralt see the tension singing through his body – his movements are calculated to look languid as he runs his gloved fingers over the edge of the bowl.

Caught off-guard, Geralt answers truthfully. “I didn't want to interrupt.” He registers that he is still a bit tipsy, but he hopes this means at least he can get his words out without making a fool of himself.

Jaskier spins and his face has shock writ across it. His eyes are lightly lined with kohl, something Geralt has seen on other performers but never on the bard before him. It makes Jaskier's eyes all the more large and startling in their pale blue-grey. “Geralt.” He looks behind the witcher, his expression going remote. “You have terrible timing.”

“What?”

“That's a question for me, dear witcher,” Jasker responds with a touch of bitterness. His eyes travel back from behind the witcher and lock onto Geralt's face. “Or, rather, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I wanted to-” Geralt starts, but he's interrupted by the sound of rushing footsteps. He ducks to the side of the doorway, automatically grabbing for his sword. His hand closes on air. Fuck, he's more drunk than he thought he was, forgetting his lack of a sword. The cloaked figure darts past him, headed straight for the bard. The figure has a dagger clenched in one hand. Geralt reaches for his own dagger, but before his hand touches the hilt the bard is already countering.

Jaskier hisses out a curse and throws his hand forward, as if it could stop the blade headed for his heart. Then he does something that Geralt's never witnessed, though after the performance earlier tonight he should have had a clue it was a possibility.

He snarls out words, lyrics, and they reverberate with power. “Run until your lungs are _numb_.”

The spell hits the would-be assassin and Geralt can suddenly hear two hearts pounding as if they would burst. Before he can react further, Jaskier moves in a blur – fast as a striking snake, faster than a witcher – and in a second he's against the figure's back, the dagger twisted to sink beneath their ribs. Even from the angle he's looking Geralt can tell the point goes directly into the heart. He also sees Jaskier's wrist twist in a vicious little move to guarantee the maximum pain, even as the assassin dies.

THEN:

The silver studs were easier to find than Geralt expected, and after sketching out a few ideas on some scraps of leftover parchment he settled on several sigils. He considered working only in his room, but the silence quickly started to eat at him. He retreated down the stairs to the kitchen where the other witchers gathered around the main table. He nodded in greeting to Eskel and Lambert and sat his project down across from them with several soft thumps. He heard Vesemir let out an amused noise from his corner of the table nearest the food stores and did not meet his teacher's eye. He opened the Kaer Seren book to the page he needed and picked up the first silver stud. He studied it closely for any signs of impurity in the metal.

The room stayed quiet except for the sound of the fire. Eventually Vesemir resumed grinding ingredients in a mortar and the other two continued grumbling at each other over their dice game.

Geralt placed the flawless stud on the table, situating the back into a convenient hole in the wood so that it laid flat to the table. Picking up the small hammer he'd found in the armory, he carefully tapped away at the stud until it was no longer domed but still roughly circular. When he deemed it smooth enough, he used his sharpened thumbnail press into the soft metal with painstaking slowness.

Luckily the pattern wasn't too complex – a few lines and the design was complete. After pondering his left hand for a moment, he made a choice and brought it to his mouth, using a sharp canine to prick his ring fingertip. The faint smell of witcher blood met his nose and he eyed his blood critically before pressing the fingertip to the sigil.

With a glance at the book to check his pronounciation, he hissed a quiet word in Elder, and the spell sank into the metal with a faint sucking sensation from his hand. He pried the stud from the table and set it aside to pick up the next one. He looked up from his task when he realized quiet had decended again.

Eskel and Lambert were watching him, Eskel with interest as he glanced at the old book, Lambert with something that looked like suspicion.

Geralt braced himself.

Unsuprisingly, Lambert spoke up first. “First, the witcher that usually comes in right before the first big blizzard of the season shows up before even the old man gets here.” Vesemir let out a warning growl which the youngest witcher ignored. “Then, that same witcher goes on a mad cleaning and clearing spree throughout the keep. And now this,” he gestured at the book and the studs. “Working what looks like damned old magic that,” he sniffed expansively, “smells like protection of some sort that you're lacing with your own blood. Tell us, brother,” Lambert asked with a mocking tone and a smile that exposed most of his teeth, “are you courting someone? Planning on bringing some sweet little thing up here next year if the den is pretty enough? Going to introduce someone to the family?”

Geralt bared his teeth right back. “Why, Lambert?” He narrowed his eyes and stared the younger witcher down. “Jealous?”

Lambert started to rise, a rumbling growl rising from his throat. Geralt put the stud down and did the same, nudging his bench out of the way. Eskel heaved a sigh and reached across the table to snag the book and pull it to relative safety. Vesemir tapped his pestle to the edge of his mortar with a loud clang and snapped, “Not in the kitchen, lads.”

As if that was the sign he was waiting for, Lambert launched himself over the table towards Geralt. The older witcher was already on the move, however, and dodged to the side so that he could grab his opponent and fling him through the doorway. Geralt followed Lambert's tumble with a bound and almost managed to land directly on top of him, but at the last moment Lambert rolled out of the way. The two paused, eyeing each other.

The next breath, they were grappling on the flagstones. Dust shook from the rafters whenever one of the combatants was thrown into a wall, and more than one pile of firewood was scattered across the hallway. They rolled and snarled at one other in such a way that to the untrained eye it looked like they were trying to kill eachother. There was a decided lack of blood on the floor, however, and the wrestling continued until Lambert wound up under Geralt in a choke hold.

“Yield,” Geralt growled into the younger witcher's ear as he slowly squeezed. Lambert squirmed and swore, but the hold was too good. Eventually, he sighed and tapped the floor twice.

They broke apart with relative ease and Lambert rolled his neck, wincing slightly at the feeling of bruises that would fade before they'd fully formed.

A clearing of a throat at the kitchen doorway caught their attention and they turned to see Eskel leaning against the frame.

“So,” he said deliberately. He crossed his arms and stared Geralt down.

Geralt felt his hackles start to raise.

“Are you ready to tell us what's going on?”

NOW:

There is a moment of stillness and Geralt can now only hear the one heart beating as if about to burst.

Jaskier catches the assassin under the arms as they start to fall and drags the body out of view of the hallway. He locks eyes with the witcher and jerks his head towards the door. Geralt swings the door shut, keeping the bard in his peripheral vision as he does so. He approaches the bard and the body. He's ignored as the bard pulls back the cowl hiding the body's face.

“He doesn't have a scent,” Geralt offers. The assassin barely had a heartbeat before Jaskier's spell hit him, for that matter. There is also a lack of the smell of blood, but that could be due to the muffling of the body's clothes, or the fact that the dagger is still wedged tight.

Jaskier tsks in annoyance and bares the skin behind the body's left ear. There's a rapidly-fading symbol that Geralt tries to memorize but Jaskier shifts again, blocking the view, and speaks.

“It's not supposed to.”

Geralt snorts. “Every human and creature has a scent.”

“This is neither.” Jaskier rocks back on his heels and takes a deep breath. Geralt can hear his heartbeat start to slow down, but his shoulders are still rigid with tension. “It's a construct. It'll turn into its component parts within an hour.”

That explained the lack of a smell of blood, now that the witcher thinks of it.

“Constructs like this are rare.” Geralt immediately regrets his – what had Jaskier called it, exposition? - but Jaskier just shrugs.

“Not in Oxenfurt.”

Geralt kneels beside the bard and reaches for the dagger's hilt. Jaskier slaps his hand away with the back of his own. “Don't touch that. It's spelled.” Geralt pulls his hand back, his brows drawing down. He studies the bard. He can't read Jaskier's normally expressive face. This... bothers him.

“Jaskier, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Jaskier starts laughing. At first it has a sharp, bitter bite but as he keeps going his shoulders start to drop and the sound changes to genuine amusement. By the time he's stopped, Geralt can tell his heart is beating at its normal rate.

The bard rises smoothly back to his feet, carefully removes his gloves without touching the outsides to his skin. Geralt notices that the bard's fingernails are dyed with Zerrikanian henna. For some reason, the dark stain suits the bard. He also catches a familiar whiff of magic when the gloves are off – had Jaskier stolen them from a healer, to prevent contagion? What in all the hells did he need them for?

Jaskier tosses the gloves into a nearby wash basin filled with salt water and offers a hand down to the witcher. “A better question is, still, what the hell are you doing here, Geralt?”

Geralt watches his face for a moment, still trying and failing to read it. He looks down at the extended hand and accepts the offer. He stands without putting anything but the minimum of pressure on the bard and as soon as he's steady Jaskier pulls away. Geralt fights to keep from trying to hold on longer – the contact feels good. Jaskier's skin is still soft other than his instrument calluses, and Geralt could feel the comforting strength lurking under the well cared for skin. The dye on the fingernails was beautifully done – none of the nearby skin is stained like Geralt has seen in the past.

Jaskier walks with smooth grace – where is the near-dancing bounce in his steps that Geralt remembers so well? – back to the desk. He hops up onto it, crossing his legs and pulling the bowl filled with blackberries into his lap. He stares at the witcher, waiting.

Geralt stifles a twitch but meets the bard's eyes. “I was looking for you.”

Jaskier snorts. “Obviously.” He chooses a blackberry and gestures in a 'continue' manner before popping it in his mouth.

The words feel like gravel stuck in Geralt's throat and he looks away. He coughs, as if that would actually dislodge them, but to his surprise it makes the moment easier.

“I'm taking responsibility for my actions.” He watches Jaskier eat another berry and heaves a sigh. “I'm on my way to Cintra to claim the child. I've heard whispers of the war, and I've had a few run-ins with Nilfgaardian spies and assassins. Somehow they found out about him being my Child Surprise.”

He pauses when Jaskier chokes on a berry, but at the bard's gesture he continues. “For whatever reason, they see me as a threat but if I move quickly and quietly enough the child and I can be gone from Cintra before the main forces arrive.”

Geralt's gaze drops again to Jaskier's fingers, now stained with juice and the henna as he brings another berry to his lips. “I wanted to see you first.” He sees Jaskier's face start to change, hardening like a mask. It's almost startling to see the bard's mouth move enough to release one word.

“Why?”

The words get lodged in Geralt's throat again. At his hesitation, Jaskier sets the bowl to the side and leans forward. His face is blank.

“Say it.”

THEN:

Making the small sigils took nearly the whole of winter – far longer than Geralt expected. The small magics were draining, and he learned to only do a few at a time after passing out at the kitchen table the first time. The rest of the time, he spent his restless energies where he could.

One early morning before the first blizzard he took Roach down and around the trail to the old Western keep. It had been where the youngest boys had been kept and trained, and Geralt had the idea that perhaps some of the training equipment would still be there. After all, leather could last for a damned long time if properly taken care of, and even if the practice swords were rusted to hell at least they would be small enough for a child to use. It was something that he could look in to, since he still hadn't found a proper strap for Jaskier's gift.

The fact that he wanted to avoid his fellow witchers and their sometimes biting tongues was just an added benefit.

When he told Vesemir where he was headed, the older witcher's mouth tightened. “There's nothing there,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing worth anything, at least.”

“Not even in the lower levels?”

Vesemir'd snorted. “Maybe. It's got a lot of collapsed tunnels – there used to be one joining this keep to it – but I'd be surprised if there was much of anything.”

So Geralt went alone, and when he first walked Roach through one of the decrepit gates he understood what Vesemir had meant.

It only took an hour or so to search the upper and ground levels, to no avail. He had just turned back towards the main doors when he caught a glimpse of a shadowed alcove, almost hidden by the main staircase. When he approached it, he sensed nothing but as soon as his hand touched the wood of the door hiding in the darkness, he could feel an old spell humming. His medallion buzzed.

He leaned forward and sniffed the wood. Nothing. He reached out his other hand, hovering it just over the door. Nothing.

He touched the door with his second hand and lightning shot through his body, the shock sending him flying a short distance. When he landed he lay there for a moment, then growled and sat up. He blew his hair out of his face from where part of it had been released from its tie. He glared at the door.

He seriously considered using one of his swords' hilts to batter the damned thing down. Or he could have kicked it until it shattered. Instead, he went for the possibly most destructive route – he used Aard and blew the door to smithereens.

If it had been a supply closet or the like, its contents would have also been destroyed. Luckily, the door had blocked a hallway that ended at a staircase Geralt could see led down.

Geralt fixed his hair back out of his face and walked down the hallway.

The sun was almost down when he left the western keep, a large ish irregularly-shaped bundle wrapped in his cloak held to his chest. Roach shied away from the bundle, but after a soft command she allowed the witcher and his burden onto her back.

Vesemir greeted him at the doorway. He looked at the bundle, sniffed the air, and led Geralt down the main hallway to the room that had once been the armory. He watched as Geralt placed the bundle on the floor and opened it with care. “They'll need proper cleaning before use,” he commented. Geralt nodded. “They're in better shape than I would have expected.”

“They were behind a preserving spell,” Geralt answered, his hands lightly tracing the lacing on the smallest bracers.

“Alone?”

“No. But I dealt with the remains.”

“How many?”

“Five boys and a mage. I buried the boys together with full honors.”

“The mage?”

“Cremated, as is custom.”

Vesemir sighed. “Good lad.” He reached out to clasp Geralt's shoulder, and the younger witcher leaned into him.

“They weren't wearing the armor. My guess is they got too hot. Or they knew it wouldn't matter.” Geralt swallowed. His throat clicked.

“Aye, lad.”

The quiet was deafening.

Geralt finally stirred. “Do you still have some White Gull?”

“I do. Let's go make a proper dent in it.”

“Yes, sir.”

NOW:

_Say it._

Geralt takes a breath.

“I'm sorry.”

THEN:

Geralt doesn't remember the night after he returned from the Western Keep.

After about a week he went into the old armory and started meticulously cleaning the child-sized armor.

The first blizzard of the year howled outside. It almost sounded like screaming children.

NOW:

Dead silence meets Geralt's words. He meets Jaskier's eyes, and sees he should really do better – it isn't enough by a long shot. His eyes drop, he swallows, and his throat clicks. “I'm sorry for denying our friendship, over and over again. For leaving you sleeping in inns in the middle of the night after agreeing to travel together. For punching you when we first met, and for calling your music a filling-less pie.” He inhales, exhales. “I'm sorry for every belittling, rude comment I made about your self, your abilities, and your music.” He manages to look Jaskier dead in the eye and continues with, “But most of all, I'm sorry for how cruel I was after Yennefer left. I deliberately looked for the worst things to say to you, and spat them at you like you'd ever done anything to deserve my hatred.”

He notices his hand is throbbing and glances down at it. His nails are digging in so hard that he's bleeding sluggishly. He looks back up at Jaskier's face, sees that Jaskier still has no expression on his face.

Geralt looks away again and sighs, his shoulders dropping. “And now I have to live with the knowledge that I took something as important as our friendship and broke it like a child throwing a temper tantrum.” He starts to turn towards the door. “I'll not bother you again, though I'd ask you to be careful. Nilfgaard knows that we travelled together.”

He leaves the room. Jaskier doesn't stop him.

Before he leaves the tavern, he begs a pen and ink from the elf boy behind the bar. “It's only because this place gets filled with students that I've got it,” the youth grumbles, setting the reed pen and the small bottle of ink before the witcher. “And it's not free, mind.”

Geralt offers him some coins and, after ripping the empty space off the parchment the girl at the front had given him for his blades, composes a quick note. “You know the bard – the man – singing earlier?”

“Aye, I know Master Jaskier. Everyone knows him in Oxenfurt.” His focus still on the parchment, he can hear the boy roll his eyes. He feels his lips quirk in a pained smile and digs in one of the pouches at his belt. He fishes out a cloth bag and offers it and the note to the boy.

“Can you see to it that he gets these?”

The youth eyed the bag and note. “It'll cost you.”

A delicate hand reaches from the side and plucks the bag out of Geralt's hand. “I'll give it to him when he finishes eating,” the woman who was singing with Jaskier says. Her eyes are lined with thick kohl and her lips are stained bright red, and she is of a height with Jaskier – tall, for a woman.

“Oi! I could have used that coin, Mags.” The boy tries to grab the note but Geralt moves it out of reach.

The woman cuts a sharp look at the boy. “You like your tongue, don't you, little bird?”

The boy sighs. “Yes, Miss Magdalena.”

She quirks a smile then turns to the witcher. She looks at him appraisingly. “So. You're Jaskier's witcher then.” She cocks her head and frowns. “Why aren't you delivering this directly to him?”

Geralt finds his eyes straying to the bag, then sets the note directly before the woman. He doesn't trust himself to touch anyone right now. “I don't want to bother him. I would appreciate it if you would see he gets these.”

The woman – Magdalena – picks up the paper and hums. She reads the note, not giving a damn for any sort of privacy. She raises her eyebrow at the witcher, then nods. “I'll give it to him tonight.”

Geralt offers a small bow. “You have my thanks,” he says, the words nearly swallowed by the noise of the tavern around them.

He then flees the tavern. When he returns the slip of parchment to the girl in possession of his weapons, she sighs heavily at the sight of its ragged edge but retrieves his blades.

He stops himself from slamming the door to the outside world.

THEN:

When winter finally ended Geralt rode Roach out of Kaer Morhen with a small bag full of sigils and not a clue what to put them on. Nothing he'd found had been... _right_ and so he took to the roads with the hope that something would come to him.

Something eventually did come to him, in the form of a grateful daughter of a dead leatherworker. Her mother had been killed by a pack of wolves when she had been returning from a nearby village's market day. As payment for tracking and killing the wolves the young woman offered the witcher his pick amongst her mother's wares.

“I've not the skill for it,” the woman stated, brushing her fingertips over one of the beautifully-designed belts in her mother's work room. “I'll probably just sell what I can and give or sell the tools and the rest of the materials to one of her old students.”

Geralt sorted through the leather and considered getting some of the worked leather for wrapping a sword's grip, but his eye was caught by something hanging next to the work bench. He reached for it.

“Oh, you don't want that one,” the woman said, frowning at the strap. “Ma never finished it. Couldn't figure out what was needed for those big spaces.”

Geralt rubbed his thumb over one of the little flowers. “I've got something that would work.” He looked around. “Do you know where your mother kept her tools?”

The woman nodded at the drawers to the right of the work bench. “Everything should be there.”

“Thank you.”

He went out to Roach and opened the compartment that held the bag of sigils. When he returned, the woman watched for a while as he laid them out and sketched a pattern on the strap with a piece of charcoal, making sure that the pattern was even. He then dug out the tools he needed, and within two hours he had finished, the tools cleaned and returned to their places. He carefully folded up the strap and settled it snugly in the bag the sigils had been in.

The woman returned when she heard the drawers close with a solid thump and tried to offer Geralt some stew as further payment for the wolves.

Geralt refused, offered a small nod in goodbye, and left.

NOW:

Geralt is less than a day from Oxenfurt when a tiny brown bird starts making itself a nuisance around Roach's head. It chirps and twitters, flying in circles around Roach before trying to land between her ears. The mare is having none of it; she jerks her head side to side to avoid her little would-be boarder. The bird tries again, and Roach dodges again.

After a few minutes of the acrobatics between the horse and the bird, Geralt finally sighs and catches the bird in his cupped hands. He's careful not to crush the little creature and makes enough space so that its head pops out between his fingers.

The bird is surprisingly docile once in his hands, and seems quite happy to be there. Geralt removes one of his hands and the bird just perches on his remaining hand, grooming himself for a moment before giving Geralt what looks to be an extremely expectant look.

Geralt stares at the bird. “Yes?” he asks, feeling like either an idiot or a madman. He wonders if the bird is magic.

The bird's look becomes decidedly judgemental.

Geralt looks around, hoping to spot the owner of the bird, but there's no one in evidence. He looks down at the bird again. It tweedles in a manner that somehow comes across as patronizing.

“Don't judge me,” he says to the bird. It whistles shrilly in response.

He flinches and gently tries to cover the little bird again to muffle the noise. His palm brushes against its head, and the little bird presses into his palm.

The light touch activates magic that's strong enough his medallion responds. He nearly flings the little bird away when it begins to speak in what is definitely Jaskier's voice.

“Geralt.”

The bird pauses, then continues. “I'm not going to apologize for letting you leave without saying anything, and I definitely considered setting this lute strap on fire, along with your note.” The bird sighs.

“But I do forgive you. For the time being, though, it's best if it's known that we aren't on speaking terms. I know about the Nilfgaardians, and have seen spies around Oxenfurt since I arrived.”

The bird hesitates, then continues, “But they aren't all just Nilfgaardians. You asked what I had gotten myself into, and I didn't answer because I knew there were ears listening, waiting for me to incriminate myself. I won't go into detail because it's a very long story covering many years, and little Horatio's head can only hold so many words.

“So I'll just say, I know what I'm doing, and I have a plan set in motion for getting out of here with something that people would be very interested in getting a hold of. If you still want to talk after you collect your lion cub, I'll be traveling alongside the Pontar.” Geralt could hear the faint smile in the bard's voice when he spoke again, “I think you can find me from there.”

His voice goes brisk again. “Take care of Horatio. He's a dear little nightingale, and you're his retirement from active duty. I know how you care for your Roaches, and I'm trusting you to show the same kindness to him.” His voice goes quiet. “Until we meet again, Geralt. Whenever that is. And thank you for the strap – whenever I smell its scent of overprotectiveness and horses, I'll think of you.”

The magic fades and Geralt's medallion stops humming. The bird – nightingale – preens himself smugly.

“Horatio, are you?” Geralt asks, his voice cracking just a little. “Welcome. I hope you can feed yourself for a while, as I have no idea what nightingales eat.”

The nightingale chirps cheerfully in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, the first fic I've written and posted in a fucking decade. Yes there will be more - I've got Ideas, including parts told from Jaskier's point of view and out-takes. I'm going ahead and turning this into a series so if anyone's interested they can subscribe to that.
> 
> Side note: feel free to imagine 'It's Raining Men' while Geralt and Lambert are wrestling. That scene was giving my sister Bridget Jones flashbacks ;) 
> 
> And yes, the band Jaskier plays with absolutely is the Amazing Devil and I absolutely did make sure to get the Polish version of the fantastic Miz Madeleine's name.


End file.
